


Just We Two in All the World

by pickledfingers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:37:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickledfingers/pseuds/pickledfingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is being much more obsessed than usual, John is convinced he's going insane and Mycroft is only three steps away from well-planned murder. What's a big brother to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just We Two in All the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Johnlock gift exchange! This is a gift for bunniewatson.  
> Prompt: Sherlock abuses his Brothers power to stalk a wealthy man named John Watson.  
> This as originally up to be a graphic novel, but after 5 pages of roughs that only covered the first scene, I realized it wasn't possible within the given time frame. I might make them later, though.
> 
> Title taken from First Meetings by Arseny Tarkovsky

There is an old house on a hill in the British countryside. It has stood there for centuries, and every year of every century the house has stood the family of the house throws a ball.

They are beautiful, without fail. There are flashes of colour, swirls of sound, beautiful soft golden light illuminating a hardwood dance floor. The music was sublime, reaching ever higher standards of perfection as the night wore on, and the floor was a beautiful riot of colours as people danced and twirled and turned in time with the swirling golden melodies...

The dark figure outside the window scoffed.

The dark mood the figure radiated was at odds with the warm atmosphere of the garden. Some poor person had been left to strip fairy lights up from all the trees, and the garden looked magical. It was a pity that no one came outside, somehow preferring loud music and company to the softly lit grounds.

He never came to these dances, usually, preferring that his mother's dances stayed with her and left him untouched. This time, though, his mother had begged him to come, to find someone, anyone, to dance with, and failing that she had gone to Mycroft.

_Mycroft._

Sherlock's only consolation in this was that his brother would owe him a Favour.

Favours from Mycroft justified their capital letter. He would give you anything within his not inconsiderable power to give, and the last time that Sherlock held a Favour in his grasp he had used it to go and train with CSS (they were better equipped for cold in Canada whereas England just fell apart).

Sherlock stared through the window. Why was he here? His mother had to know he wouldn't dance with anyone! Well, not voluntarily any how.

He saw Mycroft's pale face appear in one of the windows and give him a glare.

Fine.

He trudged inside, taking care not to show any outward expression of his disgust on his face, with te exception of the nod he threw at Mycroft once he was inside the house. Myroft raised a delicate eyebrow. Who knew that a nod could hold so much contempt?

He threw himself on to one of the chairs at the outskirts of the dance floor, and busied himself trying to find the identity of the waiter his aunt was having an affair with.

He looked disinterestedly at the gloved hand that had appeared within his field of vision, held out towards him in obvious invitation. Why couldn't it just be an invitation to dance? Those were much less annoying than the do-you-want-to-dance-and-then-see-if-we-can-find-an-empty-room variety.

“Does your wife know you're here?” Sherlock saw the markings on the fingertips of the glove. “Or should I inform her, erm, gardener that she should put her affair with him on a more permanent footing?"

The glove hand curled into a fist and then left his vision.

People were so predictable.

A path appeared in the middle of the dance floor for a moment while the floral figures spun, and Sherlock saw a blond man (army doctor, wounded in action, here with brother, old money, avid knitter, secret philatelist) on the other side of the room, looking just as bored as he was.

It appeared that the blond man had seen him a well, because less than a minute later while Sherlock was contemplating how much firepower it would take to bring about the destruction of this section of the house (while leaving his basement lab untouched, obviously) the blond man limped to a seat next to him and sat down heavily.

“You look as bored as I feel,” the blond man commented easily, watching the dizzying dance in front of him.  
“I was coerced into coming. My mother seems to be under the impression that either my brother or I needs 'that special someone' and failing my brother she seems to have turned to me.”

Sherlock heard a chuckle from next to him.

“My sister thinks I need to get out more. So she brought me here.” Sherlock wasn't looking at the man's face, but he felt the mood darken from beside him. “My leg makes it difficult to enjoy these things.”

“Psychosomatic, yes?”

The blond stiffened in surprise.

“How did you know that?” He looked at Sherlock, his eyes alight with curiosity.

Sherlock snorted. “The same way I know that you were wounded in action, that you were a doctor and that you knit in your spare time. It's obvious if you know where to look.”

Sherlock made the mistake of looking at the man beside him. The blue eyes staring back at him were wide with amazement and something that Sherlock couldn't name. Fascinating. He sputtered to a halt.

The blond gave Sherlock and easy grin.

“That was amazing! Walk with me? You can explain how you know that.”

“You want me to walk with you? You don't even know my name.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” said the blond automatically. Looking at Sherlock's surprised expression, he explained, “The whole room's been gossiping. I listen. John Watson, by the way.”

He held out a hand for Sherlock to take, and Sherlock, in a move that he performed only for clients and people he was trying to impress, shook it.

 

“Now I know you're lying. How an you possibly know that I knit?”

“John, don't insult my intelligence.”

“The socks?”

“Right in one.”

They were sitting at the bench that Sherlock had previously been glared from, and so far neither Mummy nor Mycroft had tried to remove them.

The music changed from inside the hall. John fidgeted, working up to something. He opened his mouth.

“Yes,” Sherlock spoke softly.

John closed his mouth.

“You want to know if I will dance with you? The answer is yes. You are easily the least annoying person in the room.” Not to mention, if he danced with someone then Mummy might finally stop inviting him to these things.

John gave him a grin. “Well, when you put it that way, how's a boy to refuse?”

He stood up, and for the second time in one night, Sherlock took John's hand.

The violins inside slowly swelled and Sherlock realized that John was surprisingly good at waltzing. He smiled in satisfaction when he saw the cane resting on the floor beside their bench. It might not have been him, but Sherlock was damned if he wasn't going to take credit for John's recovery.

John relaxed into Sherlock's arms, breathing in the scent of the man in front of him. God, he'd never been so attracted. He pulled back and stared at Sherlock's severe face, smiling slightly. Sherlock met his eyes and, face puzzled as if he wasn’t certain how human contact worked, brought one hand up to the back of John' head, the other stroking John's right shoulder.

And there, in the middle of a dark garden lit only by the glow of fairly lights, the night wind blowing dandelion seeds around them, two men who had never met before in their lives, kissed and forgot about the world around them.

 

And then never contacted each other.

It was odd, the way they danced around it. Both tried to keep up with the other's doings without actually speaking to one another. John combed through the newspapers every morning for any mention of a case with Sherlock's name on it, and stalked The Science of Deduction in any waking moment.

Sherlock... well, Sherlock is a man with few boundaries.

“Really, Sherlock?” Came Mycroft's voice. Sherlock had just been kidnapped, again, and was refusing to look at his kidnapper. After being stuffed into a jaguar, he'd been driven to a warehouse and dumped at a table in a small concrete room.

“I mean, you're hardly subtle.” He handed Sherlock an envelope.

Never able to resist a mystery, no matter how small, Sherlock opened the end and tipped out a number of photographs.

“Ah.”

“My favourite photograph, dear brother, is the one of you with the streetlamp.”

“Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock sneered, putting as much venom in to his 'yes' as he could.

“I mean, hanging upside down for how many hours? Two, three? I admire your stamina.”

“Yes, Mycroft.”

“I'm amazed he didn't spot you, Sherlock. As it was, I had to reroute seven calls about a mysterious man with a pair of binoculars, three calls about 'that creepy bloke what's hanging from the lamp', two from people concerned that this was some sort of misconstrued suicide attempt, and one man complaining that you shot his dog with an elephant tranquilizer.”

“It was annoying me.”

“Sherlock, you killed a beloved family pet. Admit that you need help for goodness sake.”

“No.”

Mycroft suddenly looked gleeful.

“Thank you Sherlock. I was worried you might accept too soon, and then I'd never get to talk to you about the rest of the pictures.” He waved a hand at a couple on the table.

“That was a bad day, Mycroft-”

“A bad day? You're dressed as a clown.” Sherlock scowled. Mycroft looked sinfully gleeful. “Oh, Sherlock, are you not referring to your state of dress? Could you possibly be referring to what happened after? Because I think that 'bad day' doesn't cover that.”

“It wasn't my fault, they had weapons-”

“Sherlock, you were mugged by a gang of six year-olds. They had three slingshots and a water pistol. Look, all you can see in this picture is your feet poking from under a crowd of children.”

Sherlock glared.

Mycroft sighed.

“Sherlock, just admit you need help, and I'll give you access to the CCTV cameras in return for your Favour, and that way you can continue to stalk your beloved Doctor.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“How about this photo, Sherlock? You hid inside a wheelie bin.”

The picture was simple, two wheelie bins beside a brick council house somewhere in East London. One might have thought nothing amiss if not for the shine of the binocular lens from underneath the lid.

Sherlock glowered from under his dark mop of hair.

“Fine! But I get unlimited access to your CCTV network, and the occasional traffic signal override.”

“Occasional?”

“Up to three times a week.”

Mycroft grinned.

“You have a deal, Sherlock.”

 

John was going insane, he was certain of it.

He was a doctor! No one was interested in him! Why else would he be seeing security cameras following his every movement and men in trench coats duck behind corners as he approached.

He was entering some sort of PTSD-related paranoia, obviously.

This had been happening for the last three weeks now, and John didn't know what to do. He was considering telling his therapist, even though it would earn him half a dozen extra sessions and possibly even a talk with a specialist.

He limped down the street, aiming for his favourite bakery (they made the most delicious brioche that he'd ever tasted) when the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle.

He glanced back.

Nothing there, except a black jaguar gliding effortlessly down the lane at a slow walking pace.

Not just any walking pace, though. The car was going at John's walking pace.

Really? Thought John's despairing mind. Visual hallucinations as well?

At that moment, three weeks of constant worry, paranoia and the creeping feeling of insanity hit John between the eyes.

John twitched.

 

“When do you want us to pick him up, sir?” The chauffeur asked Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft was busy on his laptop in the back seat of the car. He replied without even glancing up, his voice a monotone.

“I told you before we left the house, Robert. After he emerges from his bakery. He seems to be in a better mood after he'd eaten bread, or so Sherlock says.”

His voice implied that anything that Sherlock mentioned was either to be dismissed out of hand or taken with a pinch of salt.

“I know, sir. Only he's on his knees screaming bloody murder at the sky, sir, and I wondered if that changed anything, sir.”

“What?”

Robert got the rare treat of seeing Mycroft completely taken aback by something. The moment was only a second or so long, but not before Robert had memorized the expression on Mycroft's face and filed it carefully away in his mind.

“Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Robert. We may wish to pick up John Watson a few minutes earlier than planned.”

“Right you are sir.”

John Watson offered a depressingly low level of resistance for someone in Her Majesty's army, and when they'd managed to fold John on to the back seat, John was staring ahead, avoiding Mycroft's gaze.

Mycroft wondered briefly if they'd broken him, but then decided that it didn't matter, deleted the thought and replaced it with oil mining in the arctic circle.

 

Sherlock was not a happy bunny. Admittedly, those who knew him would rarely describe him as being pleasant to work with, and the one time Sherlock had ever heard the word 'smiling' applied to himself was from a woman who was about to carve a Glasgow smile into his face.

This time, though, he was very, very not happy. If those who knew him saw him at this particular moment, they would admit that Sherlock's usual happy go lucky facial expression was practically ecstatic compared to the glacial face Sherlock had adopted.

Stupidly, he'd assumed the tail was Mycroft. It always was nowadays, and they tended to take care of any other tails on Sherlock, so being kidnapped hadn't happened in weeks.

When they'd roughly sedated him and he'd come to in a cold room with a paper bag shoved over his head and a sock in his mouth, he'd realized that it hadn't been Mycroft.

Who then? Who had he upset in the last few days? The only person he could think of was an 80 year old woman who had lost her cat to an unfortunate experiment, but she was hardly the head of an organization such as this.

Focus, Sherlock.

There had to be something which could give him a clue.

Right! Rope: synthetic, good quality, bought from any hardware store, perfect for kidnapping people with as it's elasticity allowed it to bind tightly without injuring. Okay, so they'd done this before.

Sherlock wished he could glare at himself for thinking so slowly. Being drugged usually pulled cotton wool over his thoughts for an hour or two.

Chair: Ikea model, flat-packed, wooden, cheap but durable, also good for kidnapping as position of arms allow minimal movement.

He couldn't think of any one he'd upset who would have had reason to kidnap people before.

Dammit brain! The facts were all there! If only he could just figure them out.

Bag: paper, smelled faintly of vegetables. Blarg.

The door opened with a metallic sound not unlike a knife being sharpened.

“He'll see you in three.” Came a gruff voice.

He felt like the vegetable smell was important somehow, he just didn't know how. His brain flashed to a childhood memory of Mycroft giving Sherlock a stern look and telling him to eat his vegetables. Sherlock grimaced and tried to focus his brain on the relevant information again.

The exit would be well guarded, and there didn't seem to be a vent anywhere in the room. No exits, then. He'd have to fight his way out, provided he would free himself.

Sedative: powerful, clear, administered to the neck. Side effects include slight headache, numb fingers, low motor skills, loss of focus. No drowsiness indicated one of the rarer sedatives, usually only accessible by people in positions of power for espionage missions.

Sock: unused, possibly bought from Harrods judging by dye.

The sedative was important somehow too.

It took nearly all of the three minutes he had for the truth to stick a wet finger in Sherlock's ear, taunt him and then hit him in the face with it's simplicity.

Sherlock tried to yell and curse the sky, but alas, forgot about the sock. What happened instead was a muffled and barely audible “MMMMMFFFRRRROOOOFFFFFFF” followed by a hacking cough and the knowledge that inhaling a sock, even unused, is seldom a good idea.

 

John was being lovingly manhandled through a concrete warehouse by a man who must have been the lovechild of a boulder and a potato when he heard the cry of anguish.

It sounded slightly muffled. John paled. He was fairly certain by this point that he wasn't hallucinating. No one could hallucinate a cry of pain that emotional.

He heard a coughing fit after that and several smaller cries of pain. They were getting louder. John realized with a pang of horror that they were taking him closer to the source of this torture.

They shoved him roughly through a metal door and roughly sat him on the chair facing the poor sod making the soft sounds.

He regretted not paying attention in the car. He could have escaped then, before they'd handcuffed him (“For your own safety, because he'll kill you if you continue with this silliness”), though to be fair, at that point he'd still been convinced he was hallucinating.

He could probably tackle one of the two goons next to him, though the other would get to him before he could free the poor bloke on the chair.

As he watched, the paper bag was torn off the head of the poor sod and as John's eyes went wide, they roughly pulled the sock from his mouth.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock burst out. “Mycroft, you BASTARD I'll KILL you! I'LL-”

At this point, he became aware of John's presence in the room and his expression softened.

“John.”

John was still slightly in shock, but nevertheless managed a heartfelt, “Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft was sitting outside the room in a deck chair, mimosa in hand, newspaper on knee when the two emerged holding hands.

He grinned, gave them a wave, looked over his glasses, raised one eyebrow and said, “No need to thank me, Sherlock.”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

 

Sherlock and John wondered, blinking into the sunlight, and with a smile and a nod at each other, went for coffee.


End file.
